


Needles and Paints

by Stories_best_told



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Destiel - Freeform, Drug Abuse, Drug-Induced Sex, Drunk Sex, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Homophobic John Winchester, Implied Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Love, Love/Hate, M/M, Not Happy, Past Relationship(s), Self-Harm, Sexual Tension, Teen Angst, Top Castiel, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-15 05:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3435332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stories_best_told/pseuds/Stories_best_told
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean only wanted to draw him, the way his tattoos curled across his body, the way his eyes looked like sunshine through water. He didn't want to spend years of his life loving Cas, and hating him. Missing him and trying to bring him back in everything black, blue and pale.<br/>Dean never wanted to fall in love with the one person that could break him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. sketched and  smudged

**Author's Note:**

> First destiel fic! I know I only really do AU's, that kind of my thing, but this one is full of fluff, smut and torturous angst.  
> I will try to update every week or two! 
> 
> Typical highschool au with painter!dean and punk!Cas, as they deal with teenage issues and adult themes together! Lots of love and good luck... Tissues needed.

Tattoes curled around Castiels body, lacing across his skin. Dean wanted to paint him, wanted to draw him in fine liner and smudge the corners to capture the black waves of his hair. Colour him all black and white, save the blue of his eyes.  
Instead he watched from across the schoolyard, pushing his glasses agitatedly up his nose, pretending to scribble notes into his chemistry books, whilst the dark haired boy smiled down at a elegant, redheaded girl, blowing smoke into her mouth. From the distance, all Dean could see were the inked roses decorating his arms, but Dean could practically visualise the intricate patterns swirling under Castiels loose white vest...  
No stop it, he thought viciously, that boy is nothing but trouble and you don't need that, Cas. Not this year.  
Dean looked up from his books as the sharp ring of the bell echoed through the yard, only to find Castiels and the redhead - a silly, uninteresting junior from his English class called Anna - gone. In fact, as it was so was everyone else, the courtyard quiet. Tugging self consciously at his pullover, Dean ran across the school, falling clumsily through room A22, his art teachers eyebrows arching up. He was never late to art.  
The room was flooded with gentle lights, large canvases, dancing with complementary colour, cast long shadows across each other. There was usually only 7 of the in the class, and though they gave of a domestic vibe, the 6 other girls seemed more than happy let Dean fade into the scenery, resigned to the far corner where all his work spilled across the floor.  
Today, silhouetted by the overhand lights, a boy stood in his corner of the studio, all long, graceful limbs, slender hips and broad shoulders, looking down at one of Deans canvases with awed fascination. Later, he'd realise the harsh irony, that the painting the boy chose to pick from the pile was a image of red lips, a sparkling pill locked between teeth. A depiction of self loathing and dying to young.  
But Dean wasn't thinking about it then, not as Castiels haunting eyes turned around to face him. He smiled out the left side of his mouth, eyelashes long and lacing, and a swirling tattoo of a star was painted at the base of his throat.  
He was fucking beautiful.  
Dean pushed his glasses up his nose and scowled.  
Castiels smile widened across the whole of his mouth, eyes wild and challenging. He held out the painting, as if daring Dean to make the first move.  
Dean stepped forward... And knocked it clean out of the dark haired boys hand.  
And God, did Castiels have a beautiful laugh. It vibrated through Dean, shivers lacing up his spine and curling around his throat, his heart so loud it was shattering his ear drums. He scowled defiantly, holding down the growl tickling his throat;  
'What are you doing with my paintings?' Dean had meant to sound a lot more menacing, but his voice cracked at the last word, colouring heating his cheeks, all the way to his ears. His jaw was clenched so hard he was surprised he could speak at all. Castiels eyes sparkled with amusement, and Dean realised they were less like pools of water, than a deep electrical current, buzzing and whirling with intensity. He swallowed and stubbornly refused to break eye contact, despite his irrational fear of getting an electric shock. "What do you want?"  
"I want," Castiel downright purred, his deep voice heavier when he pronounced vowels "you to teach me about art. I want to learn to paint." His mouth still smiled, but his eyes held no amusement. They were sincere and so blue and marginalising dangerous.  
"I'm Castiel by the way." He held out his hand for Dean to shake. Yeah I know, though Dean sadistically.  
"But you can call me Cas"

 

2001 (present day)

He probably wouldn't have woken up if sweat hadn't got into his eyes. The covers were ripped off him, curled around his ankles, his breathing ragged and choking in his throat, the room so dark he couldn't see even his hand, but when he reached across to the other side of the bed , his fingers were hot against the cold, empty pillow.  
Dean sat up, shaking and holding his knees, glasses uncomfortably askew on his face and just tried not to try. He'd stopped trying to bring Cas back like that. It just hurt more.  
That was a happy dream, he thought with all the optimism he could surface. So why did he feel like the was a chasm opening through his chest?  
He thought about the painting of the pill between the red lips, and how ironic it all seemed now. Then he just sat in bed and waited till morning. It was always better when you had a little light. Better but not good.  
So he stopped trying to bring Cas back.


	2. a white canvas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A presumptuous Cas drives Dean crazy, worming his way in so close to the sullen artist that he can't breathe! 
> 
> Years later, dean pines and regrets and turns bitter and its only a matter of time until he has to confront the past. Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to hear theories about what you think will happen! So if you comment at the end your theories that would be fab! 
> 
> If your interested in music, my inspiration for this was 'old faces' by Laura dogget!

1992  
"Would it kill you to smile, Dean Winchester?"  
Scowling, Dean looked up at Castiel, over the rim of his glasses. A week ago, when Castiel - Cas - had presumptuously arrived at his art studio, demanding to be tutored, Dean had told him to ask one of the girls, he didn't have have the time. Despite the fact every girl volunteered, Cas turned them all down. Since then, every day, in art, he was there, touching and stroking Dean's paintings and breathing down his neck every time he put the brush to the canvas. On wednesday, he had tried to light a cigarette, nearly setting all Dean's paintings alight. Admittedly, that day, he'd got kicked out. Today, all Dean wanted to do, was squirt paint up Castiels nose. He had this way of getting under Dean's skin, like a rash, in the way he was so... effortless. He lounged across the desks, long, graceful limbs looping around the legs of chairs, electric eyes half closed and hazy. Everything was done with an almost lazy, cat-like elegance, and he had no respect for personal space. It drove Dean up the garden path! He would be sitting on the stool, studiosly ignoring the dark-haired boy prowling around the room, trying to paint, and then the smooth pressure of Cas's chest would press into his spine, curling around him like velcro, and Dean would jump a million meters out of his skin - inadvertantly smudging his work - the sense of proximity and closeness and Cas melting through his skin and rattling his breathing. He also had this mesmerising way of saying Dean's name. The whole of it, heavier on the vowels and wilting like a flower. God alive, how long could he keep this fucking charade up?   
"No, it probably wouldn't kill me," He started passively, looking back down at his drawing pointedly, refusing to acknowledge the effect those amused, blue eyes had "but it requires a lot more muscles in my face than frowning and you dont seem worth the extra effort." Way to go Winchester, he thought sarcastically, now you sound like a nerd and a mardy bum. To his surprise, Castiel threw back his head and laughed, shaking so much he nearly fell of his perch on the stool. In the harsh light, his face was lily white and lit up like a supernova, his unbearably dark hair shining at the tips, droplets of fractured light. From the jawline, his throat was thrown into shadows, separating his head from his body in an almost creepy facade.   
It bothered Dean that Cas could have such a musical, beautiful laugh and yet be such a pretentious, painfully complex asshat. His whole body moved when he laughed, head lolled back, throat exposed, inked with swirling designs, snaking down onto his chest. His shoulders and chest vibrated, muscles in his arms flexing and straining against the pale ink on his arms. No. No, no, no. Focus, Winchester.   
Turning uncomfortably over his shoulder, Dean looked down at the Cas' shoes, just a few inches off the floor, making sure his long eyelashes obscured his eyes, falling across his cheeks. "Cas, 'm not in the mood for this today-"  
"Dean," Cas' eyes were enormous and strange and vulnerable - so impossibly blue it seemed to leak out of his eyes and taint Dean's peripheral vision - as they stared over Dean's shoulder. "What is that?"   
Cas' gaze was trained on the canvas in front of Dean, sketches and doodles he had mindlessly morphed into a larger design. He moaned idiotically, only just realising that the majority of the scribbles were replicas of the tattoos colouring Cas' skin. He had linked them together, rubbing out pieces and incorporating his own designs here and there, so each design made up a feather on an enormous pair of wings. It was only drawn in pencil, smudged occasionally, so the wings looked darker than he'd intended, but the way Cas looked at it, like he was hungry and at the same time hopelessly in love. It made Dean see his work in a completely different light.   
"They're beautiful..." Cas breathed, tickling the base of Dean's neck ".... hey, those are my tats!"  
"Yeah, sorry. They're just... im.. its all ive had to focus on all week..." Dean swiveled round on his stool, unbalanced, clumsily rocking forward with a colourful gasp, before catching the first thing he could so he didnt embarrass himself professionally. His palm skated up Cas' thigh, balancing him, the denim tight and rough under his fingers, and he was worried for a second that the heat of his body would rush through his hand and burn Cas' leg. Luckily, when he looked up - choking on his own embarrassment - Cas was grinning down at him with the left side of his mouth, his eyes hazy and eager under a lace of dark lashes, his hair wildly uncombed, flopping at every angle over his forehead. Black and white. Light and dark. Sweet and sour. Cas seemed to be designed from opposite hemispheres. He was like the moon in the daytime. And it was all Dean could think about. He just wanted to paint every thought he had about Cas. "You know, considering I haven't been able to get rid of you since Monday."   
"Persistence is the key to perfection, I always say." He laughed again, dropping his hand ontop of Dean's, his inked fingers weaving between Dean's paint-stained ones, refusing to let go. "And now I have what I wanted. Where should I get my new tattoo?" He gestured toward Dean's painted wings "I can't draw for toffee, man, so sorry for lying about the tutoring. Ever thought of becoming a tattoo artist, Dean Winchester?" Despite the indigence to having been used, Dean felt a bubble of pride and maybe even hope well up inside him. Cas liked his work. Cas said his name like it was golden. Cas wanted to permanently mark himself with something of his...  
Cas wasn't gay.   
Cas' eyes sparkled with amusement, the lopsided grin stretching across his whole face, making colour creep into Dean's cheeks.   
Cas has Anna.  
His hand was still hot ontop of Dean's, his thumb tracing little circles around Dean's palm, gentle and promising.   
Cas wouldn't want him.  
"See, you look good in a smile, Dean." He hadn't even realised he was smiling.   
Why would he want you?  
Dean scowled and pulled his palm out from underneath Cas'. 

1999 (2 years from present)  
All the canvas' in the studio were white. He hadn't painted, not for two years. Sometimes he sketched on torn bits of scrap paper; blueberries, posies, sapphires, rain on a window. Anything blue, but never done in colour.   
When did he get so fucking broken? Dean had aways dealt, used his paints as a way to deal. When his dad had kicked him and Sammy out, when he'd been bullied after he kissed his best friend, Benny, at Hinchingbrook Academy when he was 14, even when his (not technically) adoptive mom got cancer three summers ago. So why now. Over a boy who never actually loved him. Who was selfish and petty and cowardly and Dean, so God help him, loved with every fibre of his being and tried to bring back every fucking day. Every day, he thought, 'I'll draw Castiel today. Capture the blue and the back and the white, so well it will come alive."  
Well, it never quite works like that. Two years after and the canvas' were still white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, tell me what you liked and didn't! That would be great, and if you like it, kudos please?


	3. painted in red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas fights against himself and his growing affections for dean, who slowly realises that Cas is going to hurt him. In more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an IG account called Stories_best_told if anyone wants to check it out!
> 
> If you don't like violence or homophobic content, don't read this chapter! 
> 
> Sorry for breaking your eyes.

1992  
Cas hadn't come into the art studio for 3 days. Annoyingly, Dean missed his vague smell of bonfires, his ridicuously dramatic laugh and the way he smiled crooked. But more than that, he felt used. Dirty. Like his purpose had run out, he had just been a pawn in Cas' lifeong game of chess, and to him, the ends justified the means. A tattoo whore. Why shoud Cas care that, even though all he got from the situation was a pair of wings tattoed onto his back, Dean felt like a hollowed out grenade, wanting to explode and be angry, but to tired and accepting to do anything but sulk and bury himself in his paints.  
The clock 'ding-donged', nearly 5 o'clock, and with a sigh, running his stained fingers through his hair, Dean began packing his brushes, wedging down the feeling of dissapointment rattling around his gut. The emptiness of the room echoed across the wide, decorated walls, Ruby and Meg having left at least and hour before, and Cas was alone and free to huff and kick around his equipment in dignified agitation. How dare he? Who did Cas think he fucking was?   
With one hopeful, deluded glance at the doorway, Dean shoved his ratty glasses into his shirt pocket, mentally kicking himself for not wearing a coat, and wound his scarf twice around his neck, before rushing out the studio, moving as fast as his feet ccoud take him. It's because you're cold, he reminded himself, not because you're embarrassed Cas stood you up again. Skipping across the courtyard, the wind kissed his cheeks roughly and tangled in his hair, so he decided to cut through the gym. The lights were all down - and in the middle of november - the dark was already beginning to settle in a light blanket across the campus. Shadows wrestled, heaving in the corners of the room, leaking out more thinly toward the middle, and Dean could barely even make out a path from one corner to the other. Stumbling clumsily, he cursed under his breath, unaware of the hunched figure in the bleachers. The clink of glass and an unmistakabe giggle made Dean jump, falling over a tennis ball he hadnt seen and somersault into the benches. Legs over head, Dean wiggled and clumsily tried to heave himself upwards, banging his head against something cold and hard. He froze as a tunefull laugh broke through the quiet, strong hands settling on his shouders and hauling him to his feet. Unbalanced and disoriented, Dean grabbed infront of himself clumsily, grasping onto tense, shaking biceps holding him up, a raspy, deep voice whispering in his ear and he suddenly felt all wobbly inside again; "You shoud really be more careful, Twinkle Toes."   
He looked up, 'thanks' forming on his lips, but practically choked on the words. Cas' eyes were so heavy and wet, like lightning in the night time, and the shadows flickering across his exposed collarbone made Dean tingle with want. It was so... paintable. He was so beautiful, it took Dean a second to realise; a) his hands were still all over this boys body and b) Cas' eyes were wet.  
"Cas?" Tears fell quietly down Castiel's cheeks, but he didn't look away. He didn't flinch or wipe his eyes. He didnt so much as shiver. But still, Dean couldn't bring himself to take his hands away. "Cas? Why are you crying?"   
When he didn't answer, his haunting eyes still fixed on his, darkened by heavy eyelashes, Dean slowly moved his hands up, over the top of Cas' shirt, tracing over the patterns covering his lilly white skin. That was the moment Cas started shaking. Wildly, his body trembling under Dean's light touch.  
His eyes however, were so steady they were frightening.   
"Don't cry."  
Never breaking eye contact, Dean stroked up and down his arms, harder and more reassuring, not saying anything anymore. Eventualy Cas stopped shaking, and for a moment, his eyes closed and another tear spilled down his cheek, so obvious it was like dew on a spider web. Without thinking, Dean instinctively moved his hand up, his palm cupping the smooth curve of Cas' jaw, thumb stroking out to brush the little droplet off his face.   
It was all so quiet and still... so when the sharp, deafening crack of bone broke through the silence, Dean was momentarily scared someone was firing a gun. Then he felt the sting in his jaw, and the pressure of hands against his throat, a burning pain in his windpipe. Eyes wide and trembling, Dean looked down at Cas, his eyes burning with electrical anger, his mouth twisted into a snarl and his hands tangled into the collar of Dean's shirt, shoving his backward until his back was bruised by the wall. He tried to scream, to cry, but the words were stuck in his blocked windpipe, and it was hard enough to breath. Every time he tried to reach out to Cas, the other boy shoved or kicked or snapped. Dean's glasses were gone, but it didn't matter much; his left eyes was swollen shut and Cas didn't seem to be slowing down.   
"Fucking faggot." His hissed, his voice shaking and his breath hot against Dean's neck "Fucking sin. Don't you know, Dean Winchester? Don't you know how you're going to hell? How you're going to burn." Strugging, eyes burning, Dean kicked out, and his legs just gave out. Cas was holding him up with a single hand, his other throwing punches at every part of Deans body, in a sickening rhythm. Everything began to fade to black in the corners of his vision. Everything ached and burnt. Everything fell in and out of focus except for the snarl of Cas' mouth and the darkness of his eyes. When he spoke his voice was wild and shaking.  
"You think I don't see the way you stare at me?" This close, and in this dim light, Dean couldve sworn Cas' eyes were just pools of black, all the blue bleached out, leaking into the colour of the bruises dappling Dean's face. "You think I dont know that you see the way I stare at you? What the fuck have you done to me?" His breath tickled Dean's neck on the last sentance, shivers curling up and down his spine, giving him the will to try once more.  
"Cas..." He choked out, and the rhythm of the blows fumbled and then stopped. Cas' hands were still locked into the fabric of Dean's paint splattered denim overshirt, and he was so close that Dean could make out flecks of silver around his enourmous pupils and a small, red scar where Cas had obviousy cut shaving. His eyes were still locked with Dean's, but suddenly they were soft and terrified and pale, like early morning stars.   
Then they were both falling; Cas' whole being tumbling backwards, collapsing onto one of the wooden benches and dragging Dean down with him, to the floor in between Cas' knees. Dean's knees cracked and moaned in agony, and he tried his best not to wince but his whole body shoke with pain, lacing up through his bones and joints and muscles till he was numb and he couldn't help it. He winced.   
Castiel's hands cupped around his face, lifting his head until he was eye to eyes with the other boy. Then he moved his fingers over the cuts, bruises and swelling decorating Dean's face, his touches mirroring the gentle lightness of Dean's hands when he had comforted Cas earlier. His hands brushed over tears Dean hadnt even realised were there, so softly Dean wondered if he were imagining it.  
"I... Did...?" Cas' eyes flitted from one injury to another, so unfocused it was like he wasn't seeing anything other than his own destruction. When they came to rest on Dean's, they were reminded Dean of shattered glass. "I did this. I did this to you. I fucking did this to me. I did it." Then Cas' thumb was stroking across his cheekbone, untouched and uninjured, and it was just soft and comforting and strangely familiar and Dean fought the urge to both grab onto Cas and hold him till he knew every inch of his body, or to run as far away as possible. So instead, he just sat there, watching the dark haired boy.   
After what coud've been seconds or hours, Cas' hand fell away, and he turned away from Dean, shivering from the lack of warmth all of a sudden. With Cas' back to him, Dean couldn't help but imagine a pair of wings falling from Cas' shouder blades, dark and delicate and strong.   
"Cas... " Dean started, his voice breaking and breathy "Cas, I can't wait on you... and I can't bleed out... " He coughed, and carried on despite the burning in his throat "I can't bleed out my feelings. I wish you could understand that this - whatever 'this' is - is not a sealed deal with the devil... not something that you need to earn or fight." Cas was so still, his shoulders shaking and flexing through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Trying desperatey to find more words and work them out of his twisted throat, Dean took the opportunity to take off his denim overcoat, standing up on shaking legs and drape it over Cas' shoulders. It was too big around Cas' slender shoulders, but Cas didn't even seem to acknowledge it was there, let alone complain about the size. Dean took a step back, his hands lingering on Cas' back a second, before turning toward the quickly fading light of the door. He didn't turn around, and he didn't care if Cas heard him whisper or not; "I wish you could understand that it's not a curse... I want you to realise that you dont have to be guilty. I... would look under every rock and in every space between every star for a way to make you see- " The corners of his vision blurred and faded, and he staggered on his feet towards the door, his voice getting louder the more he spoke and his head getting lighter. "But it's okay that you don't." Cas's breath caught, and with his back still to Dean, he shook his head. "It's okay. I'm okay." Dean wobbled and his eyelids were so heavy, but he kept moving toward the door.  
"I'll be oka-"

Cas heard Dean's breath catch in a strangled gasp. He turned around just as Dean's legs fell from underneath him, and he slumped to the floor with a sickening 'crack'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this story, talk to me and kudos. Love you all pussycats.


	4. the moment before the fireworks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a fine line between hate and love, and the opposite to both is indifference.   
> Dean wakes up in a hospital room, in pain and painfully aware of Cas sitting right next to him. It was all to easy to cross that fine line...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyyy and here it is! This was too much fun to write! Teenage thrills and brainless sex, right?
> 
> Okay so prepare yourself for fluffy, smutty chapters that I've got coming up!
> 
> Once again, is it bad how much fun this was to write?

Cas's breathing still hadn't steadied.

At 10:22, the fading light gave way to the glow of streetlamps, lighting up Dean's face in warm orange, the same colour as hell fire. The steady drone of the devices hummed through the silence and the metallic beep of a life support machine from the next room made Cas jump every couple of seconds, like a knife cutting through his skin. 

Even without his glasses and closed, Dean's eyes still looked twice as big as everyone elses, and his eyelashes genty rolled down his cheeks, and his lips moved ever so slightly, like he were dreaming, and his hand was so close to Cas', resting on the hospitol bed, that Cas could've read Dean's palm if he wanted to. He didn't. 

The nurses had asked if Cas wanted to leave, while Dean was getting his temple stitched up. They kept asking, every few minutes, until they'd given up and let Cas in to see him, once his condition was 'stable'. Dean was barely unconcious when Cas had dragged him in, his knees buckling under the other boys weight having basically carried him for 17 blocks, and they'd given him an anesthetic before fixing him up. He was still unconsious and Cas still hadn't moved from his side. He was dully surprised his bladder had held out so long, and was faintly aware that he should probably say something, anything, before the police showed up and dumped him in care. 

But the stitches and the bruises and the blood decorating Dean's face made all the words jam in his throat and his skin burn. If you looked hard enough, Dean's eyelashes made you think of Audrey Hepburn or the lead singer of 'Kiss' - thick and dramatic and curling at the edges. And his mouth was the kind of mouth people write stories about, and even his eyes were less like grass or emeralds as the were like tarnish on silver. But his face, all together, was like a work of art that couldn't be sketched or smudged or ruined, and couldn't be remade. 

"Dean," Cas whispered, shivering at the sound it made on his lips "Dean, promise you won't wake up, okay? Promise?" The boy in the hospitol bed breathed out like he was getting ready to hold his breath for a long time, but didn't promise anything. Didn't wake up. Or move. Or twitch. "Okay. I want to tell you why. Why I am like I am. Why I have to build not just a wall, but an entire fucking fortress around myself. Why I did," Cas choked, his fingers twitching next to Dean's "this. Why I did this. It's because I don't deserve to not feel guilty. I'm no angel... my wings woud be black and burnt from all the chemicals grunging up my bloodstream." When he laughed, it was a shaking, broken sound, like a car spluttering on a exhausted engine "Nothing like the wings you drew for me- Sorry no, not for me... just drew. But I can't do right, and I deserve to feel guilty. Dean," Dean's eyelashes sent shadows dancing down his cheeks, like tears. It damn well broke Cas. "Dean, I'm the way I am because I break everything beautiful, so I've stopped trying to come into contact with... goodness." 

Cas' fingers brushed agaist Dean's, so lightly it was like a breath. Dean's closed eyes squeezed tightly shut, a nightmare scorching his eyelids together.

"You need to go, Dean. As far away from me as possible. Or you end up like... " A name burnt in his mouth, fighting to stay down, because if he talked about it - about him - he would throw up every feeling he'd bitten down for years, and he couldn't. "... like everyone else who I cared about. Loved, even. Look at you, look at... God Dean, I hope you're smarter for this. I hope you turn your shoulder to me... because I can deal with guilt. Hell, I deserve it. But I can't deal with being alone."

Their fingers were laced together above the sheets. Cas's knuckles were bruised and Dean's finger were dirty and frighteningly delicate. They fit seamlessly. 

////

Dean's breathing still felt unsteady.

He woke up wheezing, bathed in orange lamplight, ears buzzing over the sound of the machines and his coughing fit. He didn't register the pain, not like he thought he should, but his whole body felt on fire, directing the raging blaze into his left palm. Two hands were woven on the sheets. One was tattered and torn, the other frail and painted. Cas' thumb drew absent circles across the centre of Dean's hand, his dark head lolled forward, his body slumped on the seat, his face vulnerable as he slept. It made Dean's wheezing pick up again. And then Cas' eyes were open. On him. Wide and scared and blue, the exact same colour as denim, streaked with grey. The air felt hot and sticky and very unhygienic considering the whole hospitol detox, and Cas' breath was much hotter on his face. The pressure of Cas' fingers between his began to pull away, but Dean grabbed on, more for the fact that he was certain he could erupt into hell fire if Cas wasn't there anchoring him to the bed. Cas frowned, eyes crinkling above the bridge of his nose, before he raised his other hand to the side of Dean's face, medically gentle. Dean's breath broke into a strangled gasp. His cheeks burnt, hotter in the places his face was cut, like a painful danger warning. 

Sometimes, Cas' eyes had the ability to break his heart. He always looked so smirky, proud and predatory. Until you caught him off guard, when he doesnt know you see him. It's then that his eyes cloud over and it's like he doesn't even see anything. Or like he's seen everything, and doesn't want to look anymore. The blue of his eyes darken, sometimes, like watered down violets and he looks so unhappy. Guilty and happily lost. That was how he looked at Dean now. Then his eye's softened, and his palm curved around Dean's cheekbone effortessly, and it was like Dean understood why al this had happened, whether he wanted to or not. 

And god, he wished Cas would stop touching him - looking at him - like that. But equally he never wanted him to stop. He never wanted Cas to look at another person the the way he was looking at him now, and he never wanted to stop looking back. Because Cas was brighter than the moon and burnt cold instead of hot and wherever he went, people around him glowed, and that was the only way Dean knew how to descibe it. So when Cas bought his face closer, lips twisted in a sort of backward smile, his hand sweaty and light on his cheek, all Dean could think about was how close they were, and how he must be completely incandescent, bathed in Cas' glow. 

/////

Cas wouldn't have said their first kiss was like fireworks. It wasn't candle, there was no music humming in the background. The hospitol bed wasn't big enough for two of them, and Cas balanced himself uncomfortably over Dean's abdomen. There weren't any hushed declarations of love, and their hands were hot and heavy and desperate. It wasn't practiced, it was exploration. It was discovery and heaving chests and awkward breaths against each others lips.

No. He wouldn'y have called it fireworks. It was like the moment before, while the litte rockets shoot into the sky and everyone holds their breath, the sky unexpecting and peaceful. He was totally unprepared for the way his body reacted to Dean; Dean's hands and his mouth and his tongue on Cas' collarbone. Dean's lazy thrusts that rocked against him and through him, while he tried to pretend he knew what he was doing, all the while scared out of his mind. Yes, just like the way you mentally prepare yourself for the expolision as the firework rides up and up into the sky. 

Their first kiss wasn't an expolosion of colour and dramatic revelations. There was pauses and nervous laughter and Cas' hand never left Dean's face, trailing over the stubble of his jaw and the arch of his lips and length or his eyelashes. He smoothed over the bruises dappling Dean's skin, like they were precious and delicate and he wanted to wipe them away and frame them. He was that careful. 

And when Dean's lips fell away from his, it was like the moment after the firework; the colours still burned into his eyelids.

/////

The french never say 'I miss you'. And Dean had hated that. Missing someone was important, because it means you loved them. Or atleast cared. He missed his mom, because he loved her so much that it almost felt good to hurt from lack of her. Without the pain, how would anyone know he cared she was gone? But when Cas' lips left his, french words flashed behind his eyes and the fact that he missed the pressure of Cas against him didn't hurt at all.

"Tu me manques-" Cas' mouth came down, heavy and gasping, just under his ear. Dean's breath hitched on the last word, and Cas chucked, his body rumbing and Dean could feel every muscle shiver, pressed against him, uncomfortable and warm and breathtaking.

"Pardon?" Cas murmured against him. There was hesitation in his voice, a nervousness that had been underlying throughout their desperate kisses and mindless touches. Dean pressed his palm into his lower back, their hips rocking together softy, and Dean groaned, partly from the pain in his abdomen, partly from heat rolling off Cas' skin. Cas' eyes closed and he buried himself into the crook of Dean's neck, nodding slightly, like he wanted him to answer the question.

"It's french" he started, his voice husky and breathy, trying to string his words togtehr in a sentance that woudn't make him sound like a complete nerd, only vaguely aware of Cas untanging himself and extracting himself off the bed, back to the bedside stool. "It means 'you are missing from me'" Suddenly cold, Dean looked over at Cas, registering the fact he was no longer close enough and refused to meet Dean's eyes. "Where are you going?"

The Cas met his eyes, and Dean had never seen Cas' eyes look like that before.

"Nowhere. I'm right here. I'll never be anywhere else."

His eyes were paler, hooded and sated, and his pupils were blown up and so dark. The same colour as his hair, a shade darker than black. It was like looking through them, like he could see every thought running through Cas' mind, his eyes reflective and yet transparent. The were the colour of morning stars. The colour of their first kiss. Full of 'is this okay?'s and soft moans. Sticky and sweet and shy, sucking in his stomach until Cas' hand danced over his waist, stroking up his sides and caressing the self conciousness away.

"Always right here" Cas murmered, so quietly Dean wondered if it was just an echo in his mind.

If their first kiss was a colour, it would be pale and deep and translucent, everything exposed and everything hazy at the edges. Just like Cas' eyes.

Cas leant over, their hands woven on the pillow, and whispered something in his ear. But Dean didn't really hear it. He was thinking about fireworks and kisses and french. 

/////

2001 (Present day)

It was funny, the little things he remembered about that year. He didn't remember how much it had hurt, when Cas had beat him to the point of unconciousness. But he remembered the way Cas' throat hitched when he had gasped out his name before he collapsed. He remember coming around momentarily, and he was lying in a taxi, Cas' hand pressed against the side of Dean's head, resting on his knee. His face had felt cold and wet, and then, he'd though he was crying. Embarrassing, right? It occured to him now, it was almost definitely blood. He remember the A&E coming into view before he blacked out again. He didn't remember waking up, or wondering where he was, but he remember the heat of Cas' breath and the pressure of his palm. He remembered the exact shade of blue in Cas' eyes and darkness of his pupils.

"You are missing from me." Dean whispered to the empty beer bottle and the empty flat.

He remembered the irony of it all.

"Tu me mangues."

He remember how it was all fake. Everything. 

"You are missing."

He would never forgive Cas. He would never get the chance.

"I miss you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, talk to me, I love it when people tell me what they like and don't! And thank you for those who gave this a kudos! Means so much!!


	5. Alcohol System and Artificial Carelessness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's easy to fall in love with someone you barely know anything about. Dean finds out all of Cas' demons, and it becomes harder and harder to let go of his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ey, ok so i'm not great at smut writing, but here it is!! Not very much, but if you want more comment because I'm genuinely not sure whether I'm any good at writing it! There will be more about Cas' addiction, as well as Dean's. 
> 
> I'm sorry for breaking your eyes, I love you all dearly.

At 17, it was painlessly simple to fall in love. A secret they never wanted to tell you, too caught up in their own issues and heartbreak to accept how quickly they had fallen into a seamless existence with the other person. It was almost as easy to hide it from the rest of the world, ignorant to the two boys who would purposely brush hands in the corridors, and who whispered shameless things over the phone, behind closed doors when no one could hear.

The first night Cas came over, Dean had to call him seven times, the usually cool, collected boy fumbling over words and repeating that he was 'only experimenting' and then hanging up. When the stone hit the window, the sound so much louder and echoing through the silence of the house, Dean held his breath, glancing toward the door, half expecting to see John barreling through the door, fuming.

Cas had clambered through the lounge window, at Dean's command, before padding up the stairs, to find Dean waiting on the landing, sweat pants riding low on his hips. In the dim light, Dean made Cas want to cover his eyes. He reminded him of a fighter pilot from a romance novel, tousled hair swept back and light eyes focused. He looked like someone who could blow smoke in the face of the sun, keeping people warm with a brush of his fingers. His glasses fell slightly askew over his nose, and he pushed the up impatiently as Cas hovered in his bedroom doorway. Dean moved over to his dresser, opening a draw with shirts folded neatly, in formation. With Dean's nod in the general direction of his bed, Cas ambled over, sitting down on top of the duvet. It was lumpy and uncomfortable and smelt vaguely of sweat and pencil shavings. Dean pulled out a Green Day t-shirt, twisting around with it clutched against his chest, his eyes flickering nervously between the door, Cas and his shirt.

Breath hitching in his throat, Cas lent forward slightly, tugging the material away from Dean, who instantly folded his arms over his bare chest, covering himself. And suddenly Cas wasn't nervous anymore, because they were in the same boat. Dean knew Cas had never been with a boy before, but in that instance, Cas knew the same about Dean. It was the first time they had been alone together since the hospital and Cas would be damned if he didn't get enough of Dean now to last him forever. Sliding up of the bed, one fluid movement, he was in front of Dean. Slowly, he traced his fingers over the other boys cheek, grazing downwards and drawing lines with his fingers around his mouth. Dean shivered as Cas came into contact with the scar over his bottom lip. The one he made. It damn near broke him.

Cas pulled away, pressing his eyes shut to cover the guilt in them, but the second he did, the pressure of Dean's hands was all over his body, exploring and needing, pushing him backwards until they toppled over together onto the bed.

"It's okay, Cas, I'm not so easily breakable" Dean whispered against Cas' cheek, the heat of his bare chest pressing against him, his knees on either side of Cas' hips. Cas' eyes were blown wide and for a startled second all he could do was look up at the curve of Dean's jaw and the flare of his eyes, his hand pale against the tan of Dean's stomach. The he closed the distance and pressed his lips to Deans. It wasn't like the first time, soft and promising. No, this kiss was a desperate, drowning man's last breath. Dean rose up onto his knees, kissing downwards, Cas underneath him, pressed to his chest, neck straining upwards to his the artist with as much passion as he was getting. Dean was a vision, everything gold and hot and unbearably bare. Even with his shirt off, Cas never quite felt naked, his skin hidden behind heavy black tattoos. Not that he ever took his shirt off. Dean tilted his head, and Cas was at his throat, sucking and licking and possessively marking soft, purple bruises in the place just below Dean's collar bone. Dean's hands ran through Cas' messy black hair, tugging slightly and a muffled moan escaped Cas' lips, breathily heavily against Dean's chest.

"Shh," Dean soothed "don't wake up Dad." And then his fingers clamped around the back of Cas shirt, tugging slightly, as Cas complacently raised his arms, the cold night air an painful contrast to Dean's wandering hands heating his body. The roamed downwards, exploring the grooves between Cas' ribs and Cas raised his own fingers to Dean's face, puling him back down, turning them mid fall, so Dean lay underneath. Dean's hand moved to his glasses, to take them off, but Cas' hands stopped him, closing around his wrists and pinning them above his head.

"Leave them on... I love your glasses" Dean smirked up at Cas, a blush creeping up into his ears as he bent down and kissed Dean hard and wet. Dean's tongue licked against Cas' lips, who parted them obediently, sucking on Dean's lower lips, gasping for air. The bed didn't feel lumpy anymore, more like it just didn't really exist, like it didn't really matter where they were, only that Dean was underneath him, hot and looking up at him with so much trust in his eyes, his legs parted and Cas's body pressed between them. The air still smelt of sweat, but it was them together and it made Cas so turned on he barely even thought about it as he snaked kisses down Dean's body, sucking slightly on his nipples as Dean gasped, fighting every instinct to cry out, curving his body up to meet Cas' mouth. When Cas hesitated, his hands frozen just below Dean's belly button, Dean just nodded, eyes closed, writhing as Cas' fingers got to work on pulling Dean's sweats down, tossing them over his shoulder.

Dean realized then how he must look, draped over the bed in nothing but his boxer briefs, straining against them at that. He chanced a look down at Cas, who was staring back at him in wonder, a small small playing over his lips, his eyes intense and so wide, the pupils practically drowning out the blue. Shadows snaked across his face as he ran his hands up and down Dean's stomach, trailing fingers over the sensitive skin just below the waistband. Dean couldn't take it any longer, his dick straining against the confinement of his boxers as he finally shot up, coming to meet Cas' lips hard and heavy. He wanted to see all of Cas, do to Cas what he was doing to him. Cas looked vaguely surprised at Dean's immediate desperation, but relaxed into the kiss, arching his body as Dean guided Cas' hands down, below his boxers. Cas, who immediately got the hint, worked Dean's pants down, his dick springing out proudly and looked up at Dean once more, who was whimpering on the bed, his eyes half shut and his breath shaky. Cas didn't need confirmation this time, as he knelt beside the bed, and took Dean in his hand, moving slowly to start of with but picking up the pace as Dean gripped the sheets, arching his back and letting out a soft moan as he came into Cas' palm. He lay there sweating, shaking as he came down of the high, a smile tracing across his lips as he watched Cas lick his palm, before catching the dark haired boys wrist and pulling him down next to him, so they lay spooning on the sticky sheets. Dean's hand snaked around Cas' waist, stroking below the waistband, and Cas was vaguely reminded by the soft intricacy of Dean's movement, that this was the same sullen, grumpy boy he met in the art studio. Dean's fingers clumsily fumbled with Cas' belt buckles, lazily maneuvering his jeans over on his waist, his breath hot against Cas' neck, who gripped and caressed Dean's thigh with an urgency Dean had never seen before. Not in this collected, suave boy that drove him insane with his undressing eyes and soft smiles. Dean smiled against Cas, who shivered when Dean's fingers snaked below his boxers, his jeans causing friction between the two boys that made the pleasure even more painful.

"I got you, Cas." Dean did have him, his fingers stroking up and down Cas' dick as Dean lazily thrust his hips against the boy. Cas pressed himself backwards into Dean, his head resting against Dean's shoulder who was sucking a mark right between his shoulder blades. "When are you going to get those wings tattooed, Cassie? They'd look good right here." Dean murmured against the small of Cas' back, marveling at his work. His fingers still worked against Cas' cock, trailing light touched over the tip, as Cas jerked his hips desperately into Dean's hand, trying to get the other boy to stop teasing him, feeling his body stiffening. Then he shook and Dean moved his other hand up to cover Cas' mouth, catching the cry that erupted from his mouth as he came, sticky and sweaty and rolling in the sensation of Dean hands around his, chuckling lightly against his ear. His hands stroked up and down Cas once more, before dancing up out of Cas' boxers.

But then Dean's finger froze against Cas' hipbone, and Cas realized a second to late why, still dizzy from the orgasm.

"Cas?" Dean said, his sultry, breathy sex voice replaced by concern. And anger. His fingers smoothed over the same piece of skin again, just below his hip. They brushed over the strange lump, fiddling with the pinprick hole that could have been mistaken as a bite, to someone who didn't already know. Cas shivered, coming down to fast, grabbing Dean's hands and yanking them away. "Cas, what the hell was that?" Dean whispered into his ear. But Cas was already out of the bed, grabbing his shirt and throwing it over his sticky stomach, before rushing out the door as Dean fumbled after him, desperately trying to keep up and be quite at the same time, carefully avoiding the creaks on the landing. But Cas was lighter and faster, clambering out the window he came through before Dean even made it to the bottom of the stair.

Through the window, Dean saw Cas' hair catch the moonlight as he looked back through the glass at Dean, his eyes wide and blue and angry, the colour of the sea before a storm. Then he ran, and Dean didn't try to bring him back. He hadn't meant to sound like that. That angry. But it was hard, you know? Finding out something about someone you cared about, something that scared you, or that made you angry. Dean turned to go back upstairs, only to be met by his father's stony eyes, watching him conspicuously from the top of the stairs.

"What are you doing out of bed Dean?" he grunted, his voice rough from sleep and smoke and alcohol. Dean knew better than to say anything, averting his gaze like a submissive puppy. "I heard noises. I was trying to sleep, boy."

"I'm sorry, Sir. I was painting and I came down to get some water to wash my brush." Dean murmured, shrinking under his father's gaze. He knew this would make John angry, but it was better than the alternative; telling him he had a boy in his room.

"I don't want to have to be woken up because of your fucking art. It's enough that I let you pursue that fantasy at school, I don't expect you to piss about at home as well." As much as John's words stung, the second his back turned and he marched back into his room, Dean forgot all about them. His fingers still felt the pressure of Cas' hip, and his mind was still in overdrive, a pallet of emotions running across his brain; sympathy, hurt, anger and a desire to protect Cas.

After all, he knew better than anyone what Cas was doing to himself. His mother died from overdosing on heroin.  

* * *

 

Cas let himself cry. He didn't even care. He through the needles down the toilet, whimpering as they flushed away, his body aching for him to stop. He needed them. He need to stop needing them. He needed to give up. He needed Dean. His body felt hot and tired and aching, as if the memory of Dean's hands were still burning on his skin. He let himself cry until he fell asleep. Dreaming of darkness.

* * *

 

_**1999 (two years from present)** _

The needle stung the skin under Dean's elbow, before slipping in seamlessly. His body instantly relaxed, the drug lacing through his bloodstream and crawling its way into his subconcious. The needle pinched as it came out, a soft 'pop' as it was released from his skin. Dean threw it the the floor unceremoniously, cradling his arm, relishing in the feeling of his mind going foggy. He sat down, slumped against his desk in his studio, the light seemingly brighter when he opened his eyes, everything tainted with blue.

He understood now. He understood why Cas had done this to himself. It was easy to destroy your body. It was harder to destroy your memories.

There was too much blood in his alcohol system, and his mind was swelling with artificial carelessness and he closed his eyes, brushing his fingers over his left wrist. The skin wilted slightly, around the edges of the new tattoo burned into his skin. Black wings rested above the white slashes on his skin, the ink running into the scars and itching like sunburn. Below was a swarm of symbols that no one understood apart from Dean and the angels, inked in swirling patterns. Enochian;

_'Art never comes from happiness.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think, in all honesty! If you like it give it a kudos, but if something confuses you or you don't like it or it offends you in some way, tell me in the comments! Ill do my best to explain, but all hate will be deleted, kapeesh?

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it and if so, tell me what parts! Please give it a kudos, I'm kinda new on here and its nice to know when something is appreciated! Thanks, pussycats. Happy reading.


End file.
